Hold the front page

I love that expression, do you think it's actually used in real life?  It never cropped up in my journalism career, more like, "what the **** are we gonna put on the front page, no cats stuck up trees this week?!"

But this week, my news really is worthy of the 'splash'!

I've discovered the single cause of obesity in women aged between 30 and 50 (I make no apologies for being very gender and age specfic).

I can see scientists everywhere scrambling to the computer to read withdewrespect and share the eureka moment with me and a belated entry being added under the Ws on the Queens Birthday Honours List.

My miraculous discovery came just yesterday as I was (again, sitting comfortably) leafing through the new summer edition of the Lakeland catalogue (target market, females aged between 30 and 50).

There it was, on page 67.......a laundry basket with legs.

I rest my case (no pun intended, really).

Laziness (and expensive accessories which nourish this vice) is surprisingly not my 'whinge of the week', although the purchase of such costly comforts may induce the following pet hate.

Now, I work in a shop so I am able practice 'doing as I would be done by' (take your reference from the Classics, Bible or The Water Babies, as you wish) with regards to this niggle.

Picture the scene.  Two kids are hanging round my ankles, I'm trying in vain to squash a dozen eggs, a pineapple, four pints of full fat and a box of Cheerios into the final bag whilst searching desperately for the relevant store loyalty card.

There's an angry queue building as I fumble and curse under the pressure.  I think I'm home and dry, one hand is major-multi-tasking with a bag hanging from each finger, a child's sticky hand clutching my thumb and my open purse balanced in my palm.  I hold out my other hand for the change as the tension, and the queue, builds.

Into my now sweating palm, the cashier piles my receipt, a petrol voucher and my loyalty card precariously topped off with £7.98s worth of coppers.

Anarchy ensues as it all becomes too much for my trembling hands and the coins inevitably topple and roll all over the floor.

Still, I manage to bend down to pick them all up.....just like I'm capable of bending down to pick my clothes out of the washing basket!  'Work that waistline ladies!!!'   (I can't even be bothered being PC and saying 'ladies and gents', my husband doesn't even know where the washing machine is.)

PS: I LOVE Lakeland and the Co-Op (oops!) really.....  (Blow it, let's be honest, I'm never gonna find a sponsor for this blog am I?!)

Clearly not in the mood for a housewife's workout!

The long winter evenings.......

I sometimes read my own blog (I know, as Edmund Blackadder said (with rolling eyes), 'the long winter evening must just fly by'), and I worry.
I worry that people won't 'get it' and will think I'm sad and shallow (and perhaps a bit weird) and should watch News at Ten more.
You see, my blog largely consists of wittering on about life's trivia such as litter, the trials and tribulations of bringing up kids, dodgy Groupon deals, smelly fencing helmets and boiled eggs.
I'm not sure everyone will see beyond that.

But what I AM sure about is that people would a. stop reading; b. give me a hug; or c.punch me in the face; or d. all three, if I wrote about my thoughts on terrorist atrocities, famine, greed, unequal distribution of wealth, the overpopulation of the world, tolerance (and its evil archenemy 'intolerance'), religion, immigration, crime and punishment, excessive smoking, drinking and eating and their resultant toll on the healthcare services etc.
So, I'll stick to writing about the little stuff (or 'grass roots' if you will), which may seem like random banter about annoying children, litter and bad parking, and just hope that people see that what I'm actually writing about is common sense, respect for our planet, the value of friendship, the indescribable joys of parenthood, decent standards, peaceful and healthy living and good old fashioned 'love thy neighbour' morals.
Phew, I need a lie down now.

Well, the footie season is now over and I have my weekends back.  However, the long summer evenings are now spent watching my son play cricket.  It's OK (#yawn) but I miss the shouting (apparently not much to shout about at cricket, and I got told off for telling my son to 'just whack it!').

The footie season ended with the annual presentation and my son was made Manager's Player of the Year and his BFF was Player's Player of the Year (#proudmumsallowed).
I'm loving the # thing on twitter but still not a full FB convert, #mustyoushare/dowecare.  A friend said yesterday, 'blimey, never thought we'd see you on FaceBook!' and I stress that I'm still not a fan and use it purely as part of my cunning plot to take over the world with my blog and, of course, share the obligatory photographs of my beautiful children.

Parental shouting from the sidelines is a must, if only to embarrass the aforementioned beautiful children when they're not near enough to come and dig me in the ribs.
This season there has been a few classics, with mums and dads being heard to shout......
 "Leave your bloody hair alone" (you know who you are, son)
 "Stop pulling your sleeves down"
 "Stop marking grass"  (my personal favourite)
 "Get up and shake it off" (turned out to be a broken leg)
 "Carry on, you can have Calpol at half time" (just a mild case of concussion)

I'll leave you with a quick Women's Weekly reader's page-style observation. It's something that I keep noticing whenever I'm entering my personal details into an online form.  You know you're getting old when you have to scroll, and scroll, and scroll down the drop-down menu to reach your birth year!
#was1971reallythatlongago

Winning smiles

How to build a sandcastle

Sometimes I wonder when and where the inspiration for another blog will arrive, and I find it always does so when I least expect it.
Sitting comfortably (?!), leafing through the free Boots health and beauty magazine I'd just picked up from my local branch and there it was, amid a feature on 'retro' family fun in the sun.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm Boots' number 1 fan; while living in Portugal I missed Boots more than I missed my own parents.....I'd like to say 'only joking', but.....
Anyway, there in the Boots magazine was a half page spread on, wait for it, drum roll, red carpet, small bits of sparkly stuff falling from the ceiling.......how to build a sandcastle!

I jest not, the 'article' described, alongside three numbered 'diagrams', how to fill a bucket, tip it upside down and lift off the bucket with the words 'ta-dah' accompanying the final graphic.

Is it just me or has journalism / the world gone mad?  Why is anything dubbed as 'retro' largely just basic common sense that doesn't cost anything, doesn't involve forgetting chargers and doesn't make you fat.
We could say that walking to school is now 'retro', as I said in my speech to gathered dignitaries, supporters and friends at the press launch of the Hoppa last week (see previous blog), 'it's not rocket science'.

I've often thought I would like to write a book and would have called it 'Is It Just Me' if Miranda Hart hadn't nicked that idea (I'm not a big fan if hers so don't get me started).
Ellen Degeneres (a massive inspiration of whom I AM a huge fan) stole 'My Point and I do Have One' so I need to think of my own idea I suppose or maybe get withdewrespect readers to send answers on a postcard.

Well, today it's confession time as I've been outed as a hypocrite and I'm not afraid to be named and shamed for my behaviour.
After ranting about litter leavers in a recent blog, I made a fool of myself the other week when, in a friend's shiny new car, I couldn't find anywhere to put my exhausted chewing gum as we drove along a country lane, so I threw it out of the window.

My friend was horrified, and quite rightly so.  I immediately realised I  had sunk to the depths of those I abhor and I have been red-faced ever since.  After enduring my just telling off and hanging my head in shame, we chatted about the litter lout culture and I applauded her very brave actions recently.  She explained that she saw some lads drop their Macdonalds wrappers on the floor so she went over and politely said, 'excuse me, I think you've dropped something'.

What's that....children walking to school!?  (how 1980s)

Hoppa fever has taken over my life!!!

I was asked the other day if I'd abandoned withdewrespect.  My indignant reply was, 'certainly not'!
It's been a busy old few weeks as I'm launching 'an innovative new project' (or so my press release boasts!) at my children's school next week and it's taken over my life, leaving little time for idle ramblings.  So I apologise and reassure you that normal service will resume once our Hoppa is up and walking.

Your 'what' I hear you cry?!  (well, I thought I heard a small noise, were you just yawning?)

The Hoppa is a hybrid; a cross between a Walking Bus and a Park & Stride scheme, both of which, in my opinion, for various reasons are not a viable or sustainable alternatives to just driving to school.

Like most primary schools around the country, traffic is chaos outside our school.  And with that 'chaos' comes danger, 'an accident waiting to happen' as the media likes to dub these scenarios.
So, I've taken it upon my little self, enlisting invaluable help from the Head, fellow parents, local business and road safety professionals, to come up with a scheme to help our school children get walking.

I'm not driver or car-bashing, like some national road safety organisations tend to do.  We need to accept that cars are an integral and essential part of every day life and gone are the days when we all walked long distances to school.  Let's face it, in my days as an infant in the 70s few folk had cars anyway.  (I'll move on before I start sounding like a Monty Python sketch, and suggesting we lived in a shoe box in the middle of a road, which we cleaned with our tongues....).  Those were the days eh, when comedy was comedy and not watching Miranda fall off a chair (again)?

Sorry, where was I, oh yes, the school run.  It shouldn't be a chore. It is a rare chance to catch up with your children while they are not physically attached to an ipod, laptop or wii controller with their eyes glued to a flickering screen.
It's also a chance for them to socialise with and make new friends, get their chit-chatting out of the way and be ready to learn when they arrive at school.  It also gives them exercise, another increasing 'issue' in society.

Remember, 'stop, look and listen'?  These days our kids only hear these words when we say, 'hey, stop messing around in the back, look, you'll be in trouble if you drop those crisps on the back seat, I've had the car valeted, just listen to your music and shut up while I drive, we're late!"

And you see secondary school kids ambling down the middle of the road and wandering in front of cars because, if they're not ensconced 'inside' a car, they simply have no idea how to behave on the roads.  We all try to wrap our children in cotton wool, the cotton wool in this case being the latest  Ford SUV (other models are available).

It's simple, human beings are made of rather brittle materials, skin, bone that kind of thing whereas cars, lorries, vans and buses are made of rather strong chunks of iron, steel and glass.  It's not rocket science.  In an argument, human beings don't fare well.
We need to teach our children how to behave around these chunks of metal and we're  not going to do that if they are always 'inside' the aforementioned chunk.
Well, anyway, can someone give me a lift down from my soapbox please cos I need a wee?

Thank you.
That's better.

So, where was I?  Oh yes, I can assure you that, amid Hoppa activities, I've been storing up lots of anecdotal banter to keep you reading withdewrespect instead of Googling your own name when you're bored and the boss is out (ah, is that just me?).

Oh yes, and I've been running, that's what else I've been doing.  Here's a pic to prove it.  I did the Harewood House Age UK 10K in a gruelling one hour and 47 seconds.  Darn those hills, darn those 47 seconds and darn my running partner who lost me in the pack and cracked the hour!

On the buses

Being as I've been away a while, I'll get straight on with today's beef.
I sat opposite a very well turned out, forty-something professional lady on the train to Leeds yesterday.  She smiled politely at me and I formed an immediate opinion that she looked like a nice genteel individual.

Right until the moment she drank the dregs of her coffee, stood up and got off the train, leaving her disposable coffee cup, well, un-disposed, right there on the table!  Why do people think they have a God-given right to leave litter, let someone else come along and sit with their used coffee cup in front of them and leave someone else to clear it away.
It is just me?
Probably.

Sorry, withdewrespect has been on a short holiday, coupled with a nasty chest infection and followed by, oh what's that thing I do again.....?  Oh, that's right, work!
Also, Easter left me with far too much chocolate around the house so I've been on such a sugar high I couldn't string a sentence together.  Well, OK, the kids were left with so many eggs that I hid six in a kitchen cupboard and have been steadily munching through them ever since.  Whenever a child sneaks up and asks me what I'm eating, I smile sweetly and reply, 'an apple, do you want one'?

My holiday was to Portugal, as you know, once my country of residence.  I returned with a friend who was also travelling with children to visit their father.  Going towards the EU or Nothing to Declare exit choices on arrival at Porto Airport, my friend joked there should be a separate exit for International Divorcees.  It would be a busy exit I can tell you!!  And among those using it would be non-other than JK Rowling (and not a lot of people know that!).

On this trip we hired a car and ended up re-mortgaging both our houses thanks to the 'hidden extras' ( well, thanks to Groupon and affordablecarhire.com, NOT!)
Back in the days before I owned a car and the fantastic Metro do Porto was just a twinkle in a Transport Minister's eye, I was a regular on city's bus routes.
There was never a dull moment on the buses in the mid 90s I can tell you. Getting to empty seats was like a rampage scene from Jurrasic Park, jabbing elbows, right hooks and swinging handbags were commonplace in pursuit of an uncomfortable, wet and dirty blob of orange moulded plastic.  Put it this way, seats were as rare as a smile in a Portuguese Post Office (JK knows what I'm talking about!).

It was a daily adventure, often more farcical than Sid James' trousers falling down or Barbara Windsor making a boob of herself.
One day, my newly-purchased Nokia house brick rang.  I delved into my bag (as did everyone else!).  One minute, I'm just a face in the crowd.  I say, 'hello?', and I'm the daughter of Beelzebub!!!
Like a Wild West saloon when the baddie walks in, there's a deathly silence, everybody stares.

'Oh, hi mum, you OK.....yes I'm fine, just on the bus......'

Mothers gather up their babes in arms, children point, old ladies stare, men shuffle away.  Lock up your daughters, there's an alien on the bus!
I'm the one they stare at!!!  Opposite me a lady has two puppies in her shopping bag, behind me two women have set up a cottage industry, crocheting table cloths.  (Is this some form of tax evasion, crocheting on a moving bus, like duty free on an airplane?).  The man next to me retches, gargles and sends an expertly formed green globule of phlegm hurtling over my head and through the open window.
All this, everyone ignored.  I say 'hello' and you'd have thought I'd stripped naked, pulled out a pair of maracas and started singing Viva Espana.

I hasten to add that I am firmly in favour of 'when in Rome' and worked tirelessly to learn the lingua.  Even when I spoke near word-perfect Portuguese, I still had a noticeable (OK, dodgy) accent and grew to love the intrigued stares on the buses.  Or maybe I just bought a car....memory doesn't serve me well.

The Portuguese language is notoriously difficult to master.  Like all Latin languages, it's feminine this and masculine that, with no rhyme or reason, and there's more past and future tenses than you can shake a stick at.  And, perhaps much like English (sun / son), there are many similar sounding words with completely different meanings.
I once walked into a shop with a runny nose and asked for a packet of bed sheets.  (lencos = tissues / lencois = bed sheets)

 (PS: I love Portugal and its people really and I was always, and still am, made to feel at home in the land and like one of the family among its people.  The Portuguese are wonderful; every home should have one, mine does!!!!)

Toss an Escudo or make a run for it

Being a hen in Portugal must be pretty darn hard work.

The average inhabitant of the country seems to consume at least four eggs a day; that’s a whole lot of laying.

You’re about to tuck into your roast beef and lo and behold a fried egg is sat on top of it, as they do alongside most meat dishes.  Boiled eggs accompany many a fish dish and there’s none of your fancy slicing or mashing with mayo; it’s just boiled and shelled. I always approach my chocolate mousse with some trepidation, and a pinch of salt, just in case.

Returning to Portugal again (you may recall I lived there for a number of years and returned to the UK in 2006) is real culinary trip down memory lane.

I remember the first time I met my intended’s (now ex's) parents; I spent an entire day smiling for England and eating twice my own body weight.  My facial muscles ached for days and the whole chicken (and several eggs) in my belly took its toll I can tell you.

Meeting the prospective in-laws is an ordeal at the best of times.  The ‘best of times’ for me would have simply being able to speak their language, or them speaking mine.

There I am at the dinner table with the whole family, nodding, grinning and feigning an expression of complete comprehension as they put the world to rights in, as far as I was concerned, gobbledygook.

I had been tipped off that Portuguese women like people to enjoy their food.  So, unable to contribute conversationally, I ate, and ate, and ate (and nodded and smiled).

Suddenly, there was a lull in the incomprehensible jabber and all eyes were on me.  Oh no, what’s wrong?  Have I got egg on my chin, parsley in my teeth, sprouted another head or, even worse, has someone asked me a question?

I reckon have a 50/50 chance with the simple response 'sim' or 'nao'.  

Should I toss an Escudo or make a run for it? 

Now, thus far, my very basic understanding of the language armed me with ‘your house is lovely’ (tem uma casa bonita), ‘pleased to meet you’ (muito prazer) and ‘I’d like a ham and cheese toastie please’ (quero uma tosta mista por favor).  In those days, I wasn’t quite ready to share my views on the European Monetary Union.

What a relief it was then when my fiancé translated that his mother had simply asked; ‘why was I at university when I was so old, was I marrying her son to gain Portuguese nationality and would I like another chicken leg?’

I nodded, shoved in another potato and smiled.

We'll be BFF!!!! (until the kids arrive)

It's a tricky subject to broach but thought-provoking non-the-less and something I've been pondering over.

Last week, this very topic was echoed in a conversation I overheard while ear-wigging in the playground (as you do).

Can friends who are parents remain 'really' close friends with friends who aren't?
Oooo, controversial!!!  And I can hear you all thinking of fine examples to immediately dispel this theory (and my non-parent friends thinking, charming!!!).
Bear with me.
What I'm getting at, both from the point of view of parents AND non-parents, is that although staying close in a friendship after the arrival of children might not be impossible, it certainly isn't easy.

The conversation I overheard at school was about a group of forty-something-year-old girl friends who had been trying, for many years, to plan a short trip away together, just the girls!
It had never happened; running the home, the demands of kids, taxi duties and sheer exhaustion, had always got in the way.....until one day.
On that day, the ladies decided to still go away, but.......take the kids with them.  Eureka!!! Suddenly it was do-able and the trip was planned within hours!

I'm not just coming at this from the 'parent' perspective and bemoaning my own lack of time and opportunity to meet up with non-parent friends, without the kids around.  I ashamedly admit sometimes struggling to understand why my friends can't just drop everything to meet me when I have an hours gap between football training and street dance class.  How mean!!!

In reality, how wrong I am.   For one, I selfishly forget that my friends without kids have a much wider circle of friends, more diverse hobbies and busier social lives.  More importantly, they all work a hell of a lot more hours than I do, in very stressful and demanding jobs, and therefore their spare time is also a rare and precious commodity.

In some ways, FaceBook has provided us with a new level of relationship, filling the gap between BFF (Best Friends Forever) and FOF (Fallen Out Forever); where we can maintain contact through regularly sharing family / social / work and hobby news and photographs.  We can stay in touch with all our busy friends without actually having to stay in touch, if you see what I mean. (Yes, that's right, I've gone soft on FB)

I guess it's just practical that my social timetable as a mum fits in better with friends who are mums, making meet-ups more logistically manageable.  The kids are, of course, usually around but at least they can play together while we chat.  We just accept that during such mum-to-mum conversations we never actually finish sentences; there's bound to be an interruption from some small person needing a bottom wiped, or in my son's case, something urgently needing sellotaping (two non-linked examples, I hasten to clarify).

Likewise, before I had the boys, in meet-ups with already-burdened friends, I recall being frustrated at such seemingly trivial interruptions from their snotty kids.  I simply didn't understand why bum wiping was more important than discussing my boyfriend trauma or hairstyle dilemma (those things being of equal importance at the time).

I guess it's all about compromise and finding the middle ground where mums understand the varied stresses and strains of everyday life without kids and, in return, our friends understand that since we've given birth to the darn things we're apparently morally and legally-bound to give them priority with regard to that most precious of commodities; time.

At the end of the day, all friendships that survive childbirth or any life-changing event are surely worth working at in real time, and not just through a FaceBook post (see, I'm not totally convinced).  Meet-ups may be less frequent but non-the-less special and worth making time for.

PS: I've gone all serious and pensive again so I'll throw in another one of my pet hates, courtesy of 'motorway management' and specifically the signs warning drivers that there are pedestrians in the road.

Rather than having to repeat these signs for miles and miles to hundreds, nay thousands, of drivers, why not just have one sign directed at the pedestrians saying: GET OFF THE ROAD YOU FOOLS!?

Friends.

Happy days, when sentences were never finished!!!

See you soon, face-to-face, or on FaceBook.